Shoot the Woman First (25 page)

He looked up again, saw a streak of light cross the sky and disappear into blackness. He tried to take another breath, but there was nothing there this time, just fluid. He looked at the moon, felt a coldness rise up inside him. Closed his eyes to meet it.

 

TWENTY-THREE

Crissa looked down at the man at her feet, the Glock pointed at his bloody, ruined chest. He lay on his back on the steps, eyes closed, his gun in the dirt a few feet away. She saw a red bubble rise from one of the holes in his chest. Then the bubble popped, and no more came after it.

There was no time to waste. She didn't know how far the sound of the shots had traveled. She set the Glock on the counter, then took his ankles, dragged him inside and fully onto the shower curtains. No blood on the concrete. She went past him and down the steps, got his gun and came back inside, set it next to hers. The air still reeked of gunpowder.

She flipped the wall switch, and the yard went dark. Kneeling, she touched a gloved finger to his carotid artery. No pulse.

She stood then, and her legs went weak. She reached a chair, sat, drew air deep. The night was silent except for the crickets.

When she could trust herself to stand, she rolled him facedown onto the curtains, took out her penlight. She pulled the wallet from his back pocket, found his driver's license. Francis Xavier Burke, with an address in Detroit. She'd never heard of him. A couple of credit cards, a concealed-carry pistol license, fifty dollars in cash. In his jacket pockets were a pack of Newports, a silver lighter. That was it. She took the lighter, put everything else back.

Keep moving, she told herself. Don't stop to think.

His keys were in the car. With the headlights off, she swung the car around past hers, then reversed up the driveway and into the backyard.

When she opened the trunk, the sports bag with the money was in there. Below it were two tactical bags, and she saw they were matches for the ones Charlie Glass had gotten in Detroit. The first held guns, including the shotgun, and ammunition. The second was full of cash. She put all the money into the sports bag, filling it. She zipped it shut, carried it into the house, stowed it in a downstairs closet.

Using the penlight, she searched for shell casings. She found her three in the kitchen, another in the hallway. A final one on the slate path out front.

There was a spent slug on the hearth in the living room. It had gone through the screen door, the back of the couch, hit the fireplace mantel and bounced off to land mostly intact. She picked it up, then traced a path with the penlight beam along the hallway wall, saw the splintered trim where his second bullet had hit. With her penknife, she dug out the mushroomed slug. She put it in her pocket with the casings.

Back in the kitchen, she rolled him into the curtains, bound them with duct tape. She took a breath, then dragged him out the door feet first, down the steps and into the dark yard. She was winded by the time she got to the car. It took all she had to get him up and into the trunk.

Time to move. She shut the trunk, got behind the wheel, went down the driveway with the headlights off, turned at the road. She heard the thump of something rolling in the trunk, braked to listen. It didn't come again.

She drove for a half hour, the mist reflecting the headlights back at her. She passed through a town with a brightly lit shopping plaza, the lights haloed in the fog, then onto a long stretch of dark road alongside a river. At the first bridge she came to, she pulled onto the shoulder, put her hazards on and got out, looked over the concrete railing at the dark water below. She took the Browning and the Glock from her pockets, unloaded them, wiped them down with a handkerchief, then disassembled them by the light of the bridge stanchion. Everything went into the water. She listened for each splash, then dropped in the shell casings and slugs.

She drove another ten minutes, found a dirt road that led out into woods. She took it as far as she could, until the road ended at a wooden barrier, nothing but darkness beyond. It would have to do.

She powered down the windows for ventilation, shut off the lights and engine, used her penlight to check the car a final time. She found a banded pack of cash under the passenger seat—five hundred dollars. She put it in a jacket pocket. There might be more in the trunk, but she wasn't going to open it again.

The swamp smell was strong here. She could hear water just beyond the barrier. She opened the rear door, used her penknife to slice through the seats, then pulled out chunks of cushioning. She took a road map from the glove compartment, ripped it into pieces, stuffed them down into the torn seats, then uncapped the can of charcoal lighter she'd taken from the kitchen. She doused everything, the acrid smell of the fluid rising up, dropped the empty can on the floor. The gas tank had been three-quarters full. It would be enough.

Way out here, with no lights around, the sky was bright with stars. The moon gave enough light that she could see the dirt road, the shape of trees on both sides. She could hear the bellowing of frogs, then the sound of something big moving through the water.

She tossed the keys out past the barrier, heard them splash, then used his lighter to set the map on fire, backed away as the flames rushed up the upholstery, licked at the back window. If it burned long enough, it would reach the trunk, then the gas tank. It was the best she could do. She started back up the road.

She'd just reached the main road when she heard the muffled explosion. She looked back, saw a glow through the trees, heard faint popping. The ammunition going up. She walked on.

A half hour later, she came to the bridge, dropped the cigarette lighter into the water. No cars on this road, but she could see the distant lights of the shopping plaza ahead. She'd find something open, call a cab, have it drop her a few blocks from the house. Go through the place again, looking for any traces Burke and Roy might have left. Then make that phone call.

She walked on under the stars, and tried not to think of what she'd done.

 

TWENTY-FOUR

“This is more than it was,” Nancy said.

“Yes,” Crissa said. There was an even hundred thousand in the sports bag now, rebanded and neatly packed. “Remember what I told you about banks.”

They were in Nancy's bedroom, the bag open on the bed.

“And nobody's going to come looking for it?”

“Not anymore,” Crissa said.

“What happened here last night, after we left?”

“Do you really want to know?”

Nancy looked at her, then at the money. “Part of me does. And part of me thinks I'm better off not knowing.”

“Maybe that's best.”

They could hear Haley outside, singing to herself. Crissa went to the window, looked out on the backyard. Haley was sitting on the rear steps, iPod in hand, earbuds in her ears, kicking her heels lightly against the concrete.

“She seems okay,” Nancy said. “I was worried. But it's hard to tell. She doesn't talk much. She's trying to forget it all, is the sense I get.”

“If she's lucky, she will.”

“I'm going to have to keep an eye on her, talk with her if I can.”

“You've got that cell,” Crissa said. “And in a few days, I'll call, give you a PO box as well. Anything comes up, you need to reach me, you'll be able to.”

“You're leaving?”

“Soon as I'm packed.”

“I don't know what to say.”

“You don't have to say anything.” She zipped up the bag. “Just remember to be careful with this.”

“I will.”

“Take some of it, get Claudette into a program, a good one.”

“We've already talked about it. She has a meeting with a counselor this week. I'm going with her.”

“That's good.”

“But I can't help wondering if Roy's going to show up again, drag her back down with him.”

“Not this time,” Crissa said.

*   *   *

She stowed her bag in the trunk of the rental, looked up the driveway to where Haley sat on a flat rock by the creek. She'd watched Crissa getting ready, packing her bag. Then she'd taken her iPod out to the creek, and hadn't come back.

Claudette came out of the house, over to the car. “Is this it? Are you going?”

Crissa shut the trunk. “You know how to reach me. If something comes up, I'll get back down here as soon as I can.”

“You can stay, you know.”

Crissa looked at her.

“As long as you want,” Claudette said. “Nancy and I talked about it. It might be a good thing for all of us. You, too.”

“Thanks, but I have places I need to be.”

“Where?”

Crissa didn't answer.

“I'm not sure where you're going,” Claudette said, “or exactly who you are, to be honest. But I want you to know that whatever happens, whatever trouble you run into, you'll always be welcome here.”

Crissa nodded, looked up at the creek. Haley hadn't moved.

“Thanks for that,” Crissa said. “I guess I'll say my good-byes, get going.”

She walked up the driveway, Claudette watching her. Haley was throwing pebbles into the water. She wore the Mickey Mouse T-shirt Crissa had bought her.

“Hey, angel.”

Haley didn't turn.

Crissa sat beside her. “I wanted to say—”

Haley got up, walked fast to the house, ran the last few feet. Crissa watched her go. The screen door closed behind her.

I don't blame you, Crissa thought. Hold on to that anger. You'll need it.

She went back to the car, got behind the wheel, started the engine.

Backing down the driveway, she saw Haley at the front door, looking through the screen, Claudette behind her.

She braked. The screen door flew open, and Haley came out running. Claudette stayed in the doorway.

Crissa got out of the car just as Haley reached the end of the path. She held her arms out, and Haley flew into them, hugged her, squeezing hard. Crissa squeezed back, felt her warmth, smelled her hair. She held her for a long time, neither of them speaking. Claudette stood behind the screen door, watching.

“Okay, angel,” Crissa said. “Time for you to go back inside.” Haley held her tighter.

Crissa reached behind, gently loosened her grip. “Your mom's waiting for you.”

Haley let go, looked up, and Crissa waited for the question to follow. Instead, she turned away, started back up the path to the house. Claudette held the screen door open. Haley went inside, and Claudette looked back at Crissa, then followed her in. The door shut behind them.

Crissa got in the car, backed out onto the road, stopped there, looking at the house. Haley hadn't been crying. That little girl, she thought, is tougher than you think.

She headed up the coast road to I-95. She'd return the car in Jacksonville, take Amtrak from there. In a little more than a day, she'd be home.

She drove on, took her sunglasses from the rearview, put them on. But it didn't help the stinging in her eyes.

 

TWENTY-FIVE

“I didn't expect to see you again so soon,” Walt Rathka said.

She set the two Whole Foods bags on the floor by his desk. She could hear the traffic on Fifth Avenue, twelve stories below.

“Thought your diet could use a little improvement,” she said. “More natural foods, less processed.”

There were fruit and vegetables in both bags. Beneath them, a sheet of newspaper, then neat stacks of banded bills.

“I'm sure you're right,” he said. He was in his late fifties, wore a dark suit with a blue club tie and suspenders. “Thanks for thinking of me. How natural?”

She took the seat opposite his desk, tapped her left ear.

“It's okay,” he said. “Things have calmed down a bit. And I'm having this place swept once a week now. It's expensive, but you can't put a price on peace of mind, can you?”

“No,” she said. “You can't.” She nodded at the bags. “One-sixty. Give or take.”

He gave a low whistle. “In two weeks? I hope that didn't involve any unnecessary risk.”

“Unexpected,” she said. “But not unnecessary.”

“Cryptic as always. And how fresh would these provisions be?”

“Very. Raw, actually. They could use a good washing.”

“Ah,” he said. “That's good to know. You have a preference as to the method?”

“Whatever needs topping off. But I want you to set up something else, too, another offshore account, with a monthly payout to a name and address I'll give you.”

“Another one? How much?”

“Five hundred a month. For now.”

“Five hundred,” he said. “That adds up. You're being generous.”

“But you can do it?”

“Take me a couple weeks, but I think I can get it going for you. How are things besides that?”

“Good enough,” she said.

“That's not very convincing.”

“It is what it is.”

“Money to spend but nothing to spend it on?” he said.

“Something like that.”

“Well, you're very practical-minded, I know. But if someday you're interested in entering the world of fine art acquisition, let me know. I could make some suggestions.”

She smiled. “I don't think so. It would be wasted on me. I wouldn't know the good from the bad.”

“Who does? It's not about good and bad. Anyway, that's all relative.”

“Isn't everything?” she said.

*   *   *

The man in the guayabera shirt put on his reading glasses, looked at the sheet of paper Crissa had given him. They were in the back office of a storefront insurance company in Jersey City. All the signs in the front window were in Spanish.

“I'll need another picture, of course,” he said. “You want to take it now?”

“No. I'll come back tomorrow. I need to make some alterations first.”

She set the thick manila envelope on the desk. “Same as last time. Half now, half when it's ready.”